


but my heart is an old house

by lesamys



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 14:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18853225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesamys/pseuds/lesamys
Summary: Iker has fallen in love three times: first, at four years old, with football, the moment the ball touched his gloved hands and his teammates had mobbed him in joy. Second, as a twenty-seven year old, when he backed into a beautiful brunet journalist’s car and got an earful about recklessness and responsibility. Third, when he was young and twenty and David Beckham had just transferred to Real Madrid. He thought he had fallen out of love with all three. He was wrong.





	but my heart is an old house

**Author's Note:**

> I've loved Iker forever. It broke my heart when he left Real Madrid and I'm still not over it. This is the product of a sudden and intense stab of nostalgia that I was never going to let anyone see except then everything went to shit. To be clear, this is not how I expect Iker (and David's) future to be. This is not even what I think Iker really feels about Porto or football. This is just my personal love letter to Iker and what he represented for me way back when.
> 
> Thank you to @wethecelestial (@cloudsandpassingevents on ao3) for getting me into this hellhole and encouraging me to do things I shouldn't, and thank you to @danielederossi (@ourseparatedcities on ao3) for beta'ing this and helping me make it fit for public consumption.

****Iker wasn’t really being serious when he said it. It was late at night, the kids were in bed and Sara was in the bathroom working on her nightly skincare regimen. David had just posted a picture of himself on Instagram, tanned and grinning at the camera under the hot Los Angeles sun, with a caption about loving the weather. Iker smiled, looked at David’s photo again, and felt vaguely sad, regretful. He always did when he thought of David. _Come visit me in Porto_ , he commented, almost instinctively. Then he turned off his phone and went to bed, falling asleep before Sara was finished.

The next night, he wasn’t so lucky. “I think the kids and I should go back to Madrid for a bit,” Sara said. Her hair was up in curlers, and as she lifted the covers to slip into bed, the faint scent of her night cream wafted over to Iker.

“Okay,” Iker said, easily. He was too tired to argue. “When would be a good time?”

“I bought the plane tickets already,” Sara said. “Next week.”

Iker didn’t say anything. Ten minutes later, Sara’s slow, even breathing told him she was asleep.

* * *

When he picked Martin from school the next day, Iker handed Martin his after school snack with one hand while viciously flipping off the balding man who had tried to steal his parking spot with the other. “How was school today?” Iker asked Martin, who was already focused on the cowboy shaped crackers Iker always fed him even though Sara said it was bad for his health. Every time Sara picked Martin up, the after school snack was sliced apples.

“Boring,” Martin said through a full mouth.

“Chew with your mouth closed, honey,” Iker said, mildly. “So you and Mama are going on a trip to Madrid, hm?”

“Uh-huh,” Martin said. He was busy sitting the cowboy shaped cracker on the horse shaped cracker and making it all gallop around his lap. All Iker could see of him in the rearview mirror was his mop of wispy brown hair, curly and unkept.

“You excited?” Iker asked. He wondered when Martin’s cowboy phase would pass. Two months ago, it was dinosaurs.

Martin nodded, his head bobbing up and down in the rearview mirror. “Mama says we can go see Grandma and Grandpa,” he said, turning his attention to the cowboy hat cracker.

“That would be nice,” Iker said, hesitating. He wondered what Sara told the kids to explain his absence on the trip. “Just you and Lucas and Mama, hm?”

Martin nodded again. When Iker accidentally drove a little too fast over a bump, Martin let out a little cry, looking at a dropped cracker, straining against his carseat. “It’s okay, honey,” Iker said, turned a hand back to rub Martin’s little knee. “We’ll get it later. Finish the rest of your crackers.”

When they got home, Iker unbuckled Martin and bent to get the dropped cracker. Instead of hopping out the car like he usually did, Martin clung to Iker, eyes wide at the dropped cowboy cracker. His arms squeezed around Iker’s neck as Iker lifted him out of the car and into the house. “I wish you could come with us to Madrid,” Martin said, quiet, mouth right next to Iker’s ear. His breath smelled of sweet crackers and apple juice and, still, that milky baby scent. Iker hugged him close.

* * *

The next morning, Iker woke up to a voicemail from David. Iker played it on speaker while he brushed his teeth in the bathroom, door closed so he wouldn’t wake Sara up.

“Hey, Iker,” David’s tinny voice came from the phone speaker, echoing in the emptiness of the bathroom. “How are you, man? Hope things have been good.” Like they hadn’t spent the last ten years as strangers, essentially. The phone speakers crackled a bit, David clearing his throat. “Hope you were serious about inviting me to visit. Because I definitely need a vacation.”

Iker stared at his phone after he heard David pause a bit and hang up, the hesitance lingering. He rinsed his mouth and stood in front of the mirror until he heard Sara move under the covers, waking up. _I was serious_ , he texted David quickly, then left the bathroom to wake Martin up for school.

* * *

David arrived on Monday morning, when the sun was still blinking itself awake and the dark was gradually seeping out of the sky. Iker thought about getting to the airport early and waiting at baggage claim, but it felt too obvious. He got to the airport early anyway, chickened out and waited in the cell phone lot, texted David to call him when he landed.

_here_ , David texted at 7:34AM.

Iker drove up to baggage claim, squinting at the signs for Delta Airlines, which David had said he’d be taking. Instead, Iker saw David before he saw the sign, backwards baseball cap and sunglasses, a green bomber jacket and ripped jeans. He dressed too young for his age, Iker thought. David hadn’t noticed him yet, so Iker pulled up to the curb, waited awkwardly while trying to figure out what his next step was. Did he honk? Should he get out the car? He fiddled with the hat he always kept in the car for emergencies.

Before he could do anything, David saw him and held his hand up, palm open, almost a wave. Iker smiled at him and got out of the car. David grasped his hand, pulled him into the one-armed hug, and Iker decided he hadn’t turned too American for a kiss on the cheek.

When he pulled back, David was studying him, looking closely enough that Iker felt self-conscious. “You look good, man,” he offered.

David laughed. “You look good, too,” he said.

In the car, David fiddled with the radio, flipping through stations until he found one playing trashy British pop. “Have you heard this one?” David asked. Iker shook his head. David grinned. “Lucky bastard,” he said. “The kids have been singing this nonstop for the past week.” Iker smiled vaguely and kept his eyes on the road.

“How are you and Sara doing?” David asked.

Iker didn’t want to talk about Sara. “Sara and the kids are in Madrid,” Iker said, the English heavy on his tongue. He had dropped them off at the same airport two days ago, walked them all to security. Lucas had still been half asleep, eyes closed, small petulant whines building in the back of his throat. Iker had hushed him, kissed him on his forehead, rocked him until he fell back asleep. Then he knelt down to say good-bye to Martin, awake and wide-eyed.

“Be good for Mama,” Iker had said, cupping Martin’s angel-soft, chubby cheeks, feeling his head nod up and down into Iker’s hands. Iker dropped a kiss into his dark curls and hugged him. Then he got up and pecked Sara on the lips and watched them until they were through security and he couldn’t see them anymore.

“Then it’s just the two of us,” David said, easy, smiling. David was always smiling. It was what drew Iker to him in the first place.

Iker cleared his throat. “What about Victoria?” he asked. When he didn’t hear anything for a few seconds, Iker took his eyes off the road to look over at David. His eyes were closed, the smile gone. “She’s okay,” David said after a minute. Iker’s heart thumped painfully once, twice.

“I have a lot of things for us to do here,” he said, and watched the sun rise again in David’s face.

“Looking forward to it,” David said. He reached out a hand and ruffled Iker’s hair, and Iker was suddenly young again, and happy, and in love.

* * *

That night, Iker brought David to dinner at his favorite seaside restaurant, where David tried everything Iker put in front of him and demanded to see the chef to rain glowing compliments on her in a language she could barely understand. Iker took deep breaths, smelling the sea on the air and the sun beating down on their table and the familiar scent of David, of some earthy, woodsy cologne and of fresh grass.

Iker had to physically pull David away from inhaling another dessert and led him to the beach, where they sat on their overexpensive jackets and buried their bare feet in the sand. David put his arm around Iker, pulled him close. When Iker looked over, his eyes were closed and his mouth was curved. “Better than LA?” Iker asked, teetering on the precipice once again.

David opened his eyes, blue blue blue, looked straight at Iker. “Of course,” he said. “LA doesn’t have you,” he said. David and Iker sat there and watched the sun let out one final deep breath, sinking into sleep. They watched the stars blink into existence among the the background of waves crashing to shore. Iker breathed the entire time.

At home, Iker showed David the guest suite. “I’m sleeping here?” David asked, setting his bags down while looking around.

“Yes,” Iker said, wondering if he had somehow misread the situation.

David nodded, and in the pale wash of the artificial yellow light from the hall, he looked lost. “Are you going to sleep now, then?” David asked Iker, and the uncertainty in his voice seemed so out of place, so foreign. Iker had never heard David sound like that before.

“No,” Iker said. “I’m going to watch a movie.” Then he jerked his head a little, inviting David without saying. David smiled, almost gratefully, and followed.

When Iker woke in the morning, his neck was stiff from resting his head on the arm of the couch. Bright sunlight shined through gossamer thin curtains to land on his face, warming up his eyelids, and he saw David snoring lightly in the hollow behind his knees. Iker stayed there for a long while, reluctant to wake David up. He watched the sunlight crawl up David’s shoulders, inch up his neck, and thought, _oh_.

After that, the visit passed in a haze of good food and good wine and good company. Somehow, even though David’s stuff stayed in the guest room, they woke up every morning next to each other, in various rooms of the house. David would smile at him each time, continue on with the day as if nothing was different. Iker’s body ached from wanting.

“So, when are you taking me to the stadium?” David asked once, idly. Iker shrugged. The next day, he bought David to the Dragão, down to the team lockers, empty and hospital clean, through the hallways and through the tunnel, onto the pitch. This early in the morning, tourists hadn’t arrived yet, and they only passed a couple security guards and a janitor. David kneeled down and touched the crest, looked up at Iker. Iker looked back at David.

David stood up. “Let’s go,” he said. He didn’t bring up football again for the rest of the visit.

After leaving the stadium, Iker drove them around the city aimlessly looking for something to do until he saw a bookstore and remembered David’s penchant for beautifully printed hardbacks, coffee table books. Iker preferred musty paperbacks himself, but he hadn’t held a book in at least a year. When Iker walked in to the bookstore, he expected David to go immediately to the center table of beautiful cookbooks. Instead David stayed close to Iker.

“You’re not going to look at the cookbooks?” Iker asked, wondered if this had changed about David as well.

David stared at Iker, laughed. “Well, I can’t read them,” he said.

Iker felt incredibly stupid. “Oh,” he said.

David smiled. “Can you?” he asked. “How is the Portuguese coming along?”

Iker frowned, made a face. David laughed, again. The bookstore manager looked like she wanted to kick them out. Iker wondered how big the rock she had to be living under was to not recognize David and fall in love with him immediately. David brought a thumb up to Iker’s face, brushed it against the corner of his mouth with a feather light touch. “I forgot how you looked when you’re grumpy,” David explained. He wouldn’t stop looking away from Iker’s face.

Iker has fallen in love three times: first, at four years old, with football, the moment the ball touched his gloved hands and his teammates had mobbed him in joy. Second, as a twenty-seven year old, when he backed into a beautiful brunet journalist’s car and got an earful about recklessness and responsibility. Third, when he was young and twenty and David Beckham had just transferred to Real Madrid. He thought he had fallen out of love with all three. He was wrong.

* * *

Two days before David was supposed to leave, Iker bought David to his secret wine bar.

David looked at the peeling walls, the sticky floor, the chairs with cracking seats. “You’ve been holding out on me, Iker,” David said, voice dry.

Iker smiled. “Come on,” he said. “No one will recognize us here.”

The bartender stocked a shockingly beautiful port, sweet and smooth. Iker and David sat in the back and split a bottle of the port between them, drinking out of clear crystal wine glasses. David was impressed, Iker could tell. Surprised and impressed.

“This is one of our many port houses,” Iker explained. “One the tourists haven’t found yet. If you want, Afonso will bring us down to the cellars.”

A couple drinks in, David’s movements were relaxed and syrupy, or maybe it was just Iker’s own eyes and the dark amber lighting. His smile was lazy, the curve of his lips slow to lift, the crinkle of his eyes pronounced with age. Iker remembered when those eye crinkles only appeared when David had his mouth open around a laugh or an obnoxious hoot, when the skin on his shoulders and arms were still pale and untouched, turning pink wherever Iker touched him.

_You’re in Porto now_ , Iker reminded himself.

Afterwards, they called a cab, arms around each other even though neither of them needed it. When Iker got into the back, David followed him, leaning up against him in the center seat, leaving the side seat empty. Iker gave the cab driver his address, his tongue feeling numb and uncooperative. The cab driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror were dark and heavy.

At home, Iker filled two glasses with water and gave one to David. They stood in the kitchen, washed with pale starlight from the floor to ceiling windows in the breakfast nook Sara had fallen in love with when they first toured the place.

When David finally leaned in and kissed him, Iker leaned into it, the closeness, the familiarity. Iker tasted sunlight and fresh grass and David, young and fit, on the top of his game. When David tugged Iker down onto the couch, pushed him into the cushions, Iker thought of decades ago, a Real Madrid training pitch, grass stains and breathless giggles and uncomplicated kisses, and let him.

Afterwards, David disappeared into the bathroom, and Iker heard the faucet running. A few seconds later, David was back with a warm hand towel that he dragged over Iker’s stomach, gently, tenderly. Something in Iker felt exposed and raw, like David had somehow bit through the mealy flesh of all the hurt and nostalgia and bitterness and tasted the sweet core at the center of it all. I love you, Iker thought deliriously. I love you.

Iker waited for David to ask to stay.

David didn’t.

* * *

In the morning, Iker woke up and stared at the white of the ceiling for exactly five minutes. David’s breathing next to him stayed slow and steady, in and out, a hint of a snore on his breath. Iker thought about turning around, about putting a hand on David’s stomach, pale fingers against the black ink that covered most of David’s body, about dropping a kiss to David’s eyebrow, sharing breaths with him until he woke up.

Iker got up and got dressed.

Half an hour later, he found himself at the door of the Igreja de São Francisco. On a Thursday morning, the church was essentially empty, only a couple tourists milling around and a priest in robes replacing the candles. Iker crossed himself with the bowl of holy water at the door and slipped into one of the pews, sitting and staring for a bit before making his rounds to the side chapels.

The priest was praying at Saint Beatrice’s chapel when Iker reached it. He stepped away and waited for the priest to finish. Iker lit a candle to pass the time, watched the flame flicker and come to life, dancing back and forth for a while before finding stability.

“Looking for forgiveness?”

The priest was standing behind Iker, looking expectant. Iker shook his head. The priest tipped his head, turned around, started to walk away.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Iker said out loud, surprising himself, the words heavy on his tongue. “It has been three years since my last confession.” The priest stopped, stood with his back to Iker.

Iker wet his lips. He thought about saying it out loud. I committed adultery, he imagined saying. I cheated on my wife with a man.

“I did something unforgivable,” Iker said.

“God forgives all sins,” the priest said, without turning around.

Iker nodded even though the priest couldn’t see him. “Thank you, Father,” he said, and then he left.

When he got back, David was awake and at the stove. Iker could smell eggs and cheese and ham. He stood at the foyer for a minute, listening to the sounds of the eggs frying, the fat of the ham popping, the low humming from David. He wondered what Sara and the kids were doing right now in Madrid. This early in the morning, Martin would be awake but sleepy-eyed. Lucas was a happy, loud baby in the mornings, so he was probably in his playpen with a bottle of juice. Sara would be awake and perfectly done up already. Normally, she’d be at her laptop. Iker wondered how she was keeping up with work in Madrid.

When David started whistling the Champions League theme, Iker shoved off his shoes and walked into the kitchen. David looked up and smiled. “Morning,” he said. He didn’t ask where Iker had been.

They ate breakfast at the counter, ignoring the stools and the breakfast nook and using their hands instead of the cutlery two steps away in the neatly organized drawers. The eggs were oversalted and tasted American. Iker’s nutritionist would be having a fit right now if she knew. Iker didn’t care. For a while, all Iker could hear was the crunch of the toast, the clink of plates on the counter, the low hum of the breathing and the chewing and the shuffling of a person next to him.

“Victoria and I are getting a divorce,” David said, into the quiet.

Iker didn’t say anything. He looked at David. David looked down at his eggs. Iker let out the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding since David had first called him.

Iker didn’t know why he thought he would ever get anything from David other than heartbreak.

* * *

The next morning, Iker drove David to the airport. Sara would be coming back with the kids in a day. The radio was playing some cheap Spanish pop, volume so low it just sounded familiar, and Iker and David were holding hands over the console. David put his head back and closed his eyes and breathed the entire trip. When they got to the departures drop off, David stirred, murmured, “Delta, I’m flying Delta,” and kept his eyes open until Iker pulled up to the curb.

They sat there for a while. David didn’t let go of Iker’s hand. _Ask to stay_ , Iker begged, silently. _There’s still time._

“I should go,” David said.

“Okay,” Iker said. David squeezed Iker’s hand, then let go. Iker got out of the car after David did, under the guise of helping with the luggage. Once they got the luggage onto the curb, the trunk of the car closed, David turned to Iker, and Iker knew there was no pretending any more.

“Thanks for having me over,” David said. “It was a great trip.”

“My pleasure,” Iker said, the formality stuck in his throat.

David stepped closer to Iker, too close. He looked like he wanted to say something, but kept biting his lip to keep himself from saying it. _Just say it_ , Iker thought. _Please_. He wondered what his own face looked like.

“Iker,” David said, softly, but changed his mind again. He looked around, quickly. Then he ducked in and kissed Iker.

Just a brush of lips.

Then David gathered his bags, turned around, and left.

**Author's Note:**

> But my heart is an old house  
>  _(the kind my mother_  
>  _grew up in)_  
>  hell to heat and cool  
> and faulty in the wiring  
> and though it’s nice to look at  
> I have no business  
> inviting lovers in.  
>  _-Clementine von Radics_


End file.
